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by Rob Skidmore

They say she left the home of God
a cataclysm of wild hair and one syllable words.

They say she leapt the salt spray of rolling swells
and alighted in a mess on her pillow.

They say she paid eight turtles and a conch shell
for a fist full of sand.

They say she went into the dark
and told it to fly through her plaited braids.

They say time slips through her hourglass figure,
accumulates on her stone tile floor.